


Ocean

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul is trying to learn to live in the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of an old fic which originally appeared on the lj comm Beatlesslash

Paul stretched out on the sand, feeling the sun warming his bones. It felt like ages since he’d even _seen_ the sun, much less felt it warm him. Days turned into nights on the road, going to bed at dawn and getting up again just in time to go to the next show. And then, even if he had been up during the day, where could he go, followed by screaming teenagers everywhere? 

This week off was just what he needed, he thought. He’d felt disconnected somehow from his life the last little while. As if his body was going through the motions and his brain was just idling off in one little corner. He wanted to get body and mind working together again. 

His fingers played idly with the warm sand, letting it sift through his fingers. Sand was so sensual, soft and warm, somehow rough at the same time, then when you dug in a little, cool to the touch. It was this kind of thing that he needed, not just to experience things but to do it consciously, focusing his brain on what his body was feeling, figuring out what felt good and why. That was why he’d sworn off booze for the duration – he didn’t want his senses dulled any more than they already were.

His stomach growled and he rubbed it thoughtfully. He was so tired of American food. Breakfast had been lovely – an omelet, fresh juice, toast, butter, jam – but he’d give anything right now for the comfort of sausage, eggs and chips. Not a decent sausage to be found in the entire country. 

He sat up to dig through the picnic basket he’d brought to the beach. Pulling out an orange he stopped, sniffing the rind before beginning to peel it. The juice squirted onto his chest and he shivered a little as the cool drops ran down him. He put a slice in his mouth, savouring the sweetness, letting the juice slide down his throat.

As he ate, mindful of every bite, he looked out at the ocean. This house was brilliant, backing onto its own private stretch of beach. He sat not more than fifty feet from the swimming pool, yet it was as if he was alone with the ocean. The waves rolled in, the spray occasionally carried up the beach by the wind, then receded, leaving behind pools of scuttling crabs and small nameless life forms. The endless eternity of the ocean always took him aback. To know that he could walk into it until he had to swim, could swim in it until he was too tired to do anything more than float, could float until the sea engulfed him and through it all not _see_ another human, was tantalizing in a way that he didn’t quite know how to express. 

He was virtually alone here anyway. George and Ringo were off on some grand sightseeing adventure. John had still been in bed when he’d left. They’d arranged that Brian, Mal and Neil would stay somewhere else for this week. 

How long since he’d last been alone? Ages, probably. Closing the door on a hotel room wasn’t the same. That was hiding. This was luxuriating. 

He stretched and lay back down on the beach towel, closing his eyes against the sun. He realized that there was silence behind him, that he had been listening to the notes of a harmonica, something bluesy and soulful. John must be up at last. The music was so much a part of their life that it hadn’t even registered as he'd listened to John run through a couple of riffs, changing tempos and notes around, moving back and forth from original to standard melodies, fiddling about, pulling all the music he could from the simple instrument. It was one of his favourite things, listening to John play when he thought no one was around. He put so much of himself into the playing, emotion he never revealed elsewhere.

He stretched again, arms up over his head on the sand, digging his toes in, feeling his torso stretch out long and lean. 

“Well, now that’s a lovely sight,” came a voice from above.

“I thought you were playing music.”

“I was. Then I got hungry. You know, I’d kill for a decent sausage.”

Paul grinned. It didn’t seem to matter how far apart they were geographically, there were days when it seemed he and John shared a brain. 

“Feel free to help yourself to the picnic basket. But put some oil on my back first, will you.”

“Mm. If you do mine first.”

“John…”

“Come on, Paulie, I’ve got none on and you don’t want me to get all burned up now, do you.”

Paul sighed and sat up to get the tanning oil. John sat on the towel in front of him, waiting patiently. Paul put some of the oil on his hands. It was warm from the sun, almost like massage oil, and he smoothed it carefully over John’s back, watching his hands as he did so. He was vain about his hands, kept them in good shape. John took the mickey every now and then about Paul’s manicures, but he’d just get all huffy and say his hands were making his fortune so he’d better look out for them. That seemed to quiet John down, although the truth was more that Paul just liked the way the manicurist would fuss over him. 

He coated John’s back with the oil, running his hands down to the top of the bathing suit, up to his hairline, slowing to caress his neck. Then he handed the bottle to John and lay down on his stomach. John hovered over him, pouring the oil directly onto Paul’s back then swirling his fingers around in the little puddles it formed, sliding his hands up and down Paul’s spine, then down his thighs, then, just as Paul was completely relaxed, tickling the backs of his knees.

Paul yelped and rolled over, jumping up to chase John who had taken off down the beach, laughing. He managed just barely to grab him in a flying rugby tackle, both of them falling to the sand, rolling over and over. He straddled John, pinning his hands to the sand.

“Ooooh! Such a manly man!” crooned John in a falsetto voice. “But you can’t keep me down, boyo!”

With that he pushed against Paul, flipping him over and lying on top of him, triumphant.

“I’ve got you now, my pretty,” he chortled, “What do you say to that?”

“Oh, no, save me, save me!” squealed Paul, pretending to try to get away. “You terrible, terrible man! Why, I’m just a poor young innocent boy, far from home, all alone.”

“Mm. Young, yes, but innocent? Come now, Paulie, we all know better than that.”

“No, really! I swear. I’m innocent. People just keep taking advantage of my good nature,” countered Paul, laughing so hard he could barely speak by this point.

John straddled his thighs, hands on his belly, and leaned down over him. 

”Well, my boy, maybe it’s time you learned a thing or two about life,” he murmured, as he captured Paul’s mouth in a kiss.

Paul, laughter swallowed by a moan, reached up and grabbed the back of John’s head, pulling him closer. This, he thought, this was a moment to savour, to capture in his memory, to focus his full attention on. The weight of John’s body on his thighs, the feel of his tongue in Paul’s mouth, his stubble against Paul’s face, the smell of sand and sea and suntan oil, the warm sand against his back and the grit of sand mixed with oil on John’s. He ran his hands down John’s chest, across his back, down around his ass, settling on his thighs, feeling muscles rippling under his touch, John moaning into his mouth. When John broke the kiss to nibble his neck, Paul could see the ocean as he turned his head, could see the cloudless sky above him and feel the sun beating down. 

He knew, then, that as good as alone felt, this was what he really wanted. John’s body the only heat, John’s breath the only breeze, John’s eyes his only sun. And he knew that it didn’t matter where they were, Miami or London or bloody Timbuktu, or what time of day or night it was, if he had John all would be well.


End file.
